Downstairs, the charity workers load the last of Sadie’s mother’s furniture onto their van, and they close the front door softly behind them.
She shouldn’t be here. But, oh, how she’s missed her beloved Raven Hall.
She hurries up the driveway, on full alert, prepared to be challenged at any moment. She used to feel so proud of this long, open approach—the way it shows off the grand beauty of the house to any visitor from a quarter of a mile away. But now, the lack of cover feels like a hostile security measure. No matter how tightly she wraps her arms around herself, or how low she shrinks inside her jacket, the new owner could glance from a window at any moment and spot her approaching.
And what would they do if they knew who she was?
As soon as she’s crossed the last drainage ditch, she veers off into the scrubby grass toward the side of the house, heading for the high wall that borders the back garden. She quickly passes out of sight of the front windows. Only someone peering down from the turret bedroom would be able to see her now.
When she reaches the garden wall, she places her palms against its sun-warmed, wind-softened surface, and it doesn’t feel like stone at all; it feels almost like a living thing. Home, she thinks, have you missed me?
But she can’t waste time being sentimental.
She hurries alongside the wall and around its corner, and she smiles with relief to spot her beloved old tree house peeping out from among the leaves at the back of the garden. A little farther along is the familiar curving branch that used to give her a route out into the fields to go looking for hedgehogs and badgers. Now she climbs up and over, dropping into the laurel bush on the inside of the garden wall. She wiggles through, scratching her face and hands, until she can see the lawn, and then the garden chairs, and then the back of the house itself. Her gaze skitters from window to window, and back down to the veranda, but the only living creature in sight is a small white, fluffy dog, apparently asleep, just outside the open French doors.
Slowly, cautiously, she creeps along the garden’s border, ducking behind bushes, parting branches, and keeping her gaze fixed on the back doors. The little dog lifts its head and scratches itself behind the ear, then settles down again, and she releases a shuddery breath. She finds a dry spot behind a red robin bush and checks the view across to the back of the house, and then she settles in to wait.
Beth
July 1988
Nina picked up one of my bags, and I grabbed the other, then trotted up the broad stone steps after her, through the front door, and into a huge wood-paneled hallway. I slowed my pace as I gazed around. The ceilings were twice as high as in a normal house, and old-fashioned portraits decorated the walls at regular intervals. The air felt cool after the July sunshine outside, and the house smelled of wood polish and lavender and safety. I peered left and right, but there were too many half-open doors and ornately carved side tables for me to work out what each of the many rooms could possibly be used for.
“Come on,” Nina said, already halfway up the wide central staircase. “This way.”
My bedroom was up one floor and facing the front of the house; I dropped my bag by the elaborately made-up double bed and hurried straight to the window. Caroline’s car was long gone. The driveway was empty. And there wasn’t another house to be seen, just fields and water channels and—
“Is that your lake?” I asked. On the far side of the parking area, the grass sloped gently down to a band of feathery-headed reeds. Beyond this, an expanse of water sparkled hypnotically in the afternoon sunlight, silver on blue.
Nina joined me at the window. “Yes. Avermere, it’s called. After my family, you know—the Averells.”
I gave her a sideways look. “I thought your parents were Mr. and Mrs. Meyer.”
“No, they’re Markus Meyer and Leonora Averell, actually. Mum says they always meant to get married; they just never got round to it.” Nina swiveled on her heel and studied me. “Were your parents married?”
I blinked in surprise. “Yes.” I pushed away from the windowsill and retrieved both my bags, lifting them onto the bed and unzipping them noisily.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy. I just—I wondered, you know, what happened to them, but Mum said I shouldn’t—”
“A car accident.” I pulled my hairbrush from the first bag. “They were rushing my brother to hospital; he was having trouble breathing. It happened sometimes. They went through a red light, in front of a lorry.”
“Oh, Beth.” Suddenly she was beside me, tugging my wrists to make me sit on the bed. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.” She gave me a moment to compose myself. “So you had to go into the orphanage?”
“The children’s home. Yes.”
“Your aunt Caroline didn’t . . . ?”
I shook my head sharply. “She travels for her job all the time. She’s hardly at home at all, some months.”
Nina put on a disapproving voice. “Wouldn’t even come in for a cup of tea.” She sounded so much like Leonora, I felt my mouth twitch despite myself.
“Exactly,” I said. “Your parents’ inviting me here is like Caroline’s dream come true—she can stop coming up with excuses now. She’ll be driving home with a clear conscience.”
“No more niece locked up in an orphanage.” Nina tilted her head. “Is it really that bad there? What’s it like?”
I searched her expression. Did she really want to know?
“They try to make it nice.” I sighed. “Some of the adults are lovely. But you can never relax for long; there’s always someone doing something . . .”
Nina shifted on the bed. “Like what?”
“Like—” I shook my head. “Like, there’s this boy who gets to visit his mum once a week—she’s like a drug addict or something. And when he comes back, he’s always really angry, yelling at us for tiny things. And we try to be understanding, you know, because it’s not his fault, but then he takes it too far. He smashes something, or last week he shoved his swivel chair out of his room, and it went down the stairs and hurt another kid. So they called the police, and he spent the night in a cell, and he’s younger than me . . .”
“Oh, Beth.” Nina squeezed my hand. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
I swiped at my eyes. “Bet you wish you hadn’t asked now, hey?”
But Nina looked stern. “No, not at all. You can tell me anything. We’re going to be best friends, aren’t we?”
I blinked at her. “Really?”
“Really.” A second later, she was back on her feet. “Come on. I know what’ll cheer you up. Follow me.”